


The Haunting of Joe Al-Kaysani's Mediocre Apartment

by incurableromancer



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nicky the Friendly Ghost, Past Character Death, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, as lighthearted as a ghost au can be, nicky is shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer
Summary: In which Joe doesn't believe in ghosts until he does, because the one haunting his apartment won't stop flirting with him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 201
Kudos: 549





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by but is NOT an au of bly manor

**_"You said it was a ghost story. It isn't. It's a love story."_ **

_\- The Haunting of Bly Manor, Episode 9, The Beast in the Jungle_

It starts the night Joe moves into the apartment.

He knows from the viewing that the place is drafty. It has unreliable heating, sometimes, and pipes that make questionable sounds as water trickles through them. The walls have some strange cracks and discolouration, and the entire kitchen is several decades out of date. But it's affordable. A step up from his last place, in every respect. There are more than four walls, for one thing. He can't see the whole of the place from his bed.

He doesn't have much to take with him, apart from his art supplies. It had made him a little sad as he'd packed, to realize that there were so few physical items that were a part of his life and his story. Just a few larger pieces of furniture, a desk, a small table, and the sofa he’d been keeping in Booker’s attic since their college days. He has some books, still in the box he’d packed them in, because he never had a shelf for them. It wouldn't have fit in his last place, so he'd kept them all stacked in neat piles on his windowsill.

He has lots of blankets and pillows of various sizes, too, because he always likes to be warm and they became the go-to gift for him from his friends. Dropping them over the sofa and the lovely window seat really does make this new place feel a little bit warmer. He has a vague idea in his head about driving around to some second hand places, pawn and thrift shops, to see if he can't fill the space up a little better and expand on that warmth, that homeyness, sometime in the near future.

For the first night, mostly he just finds himself walking through the rooms and taking it all in, again and again. He lays down on the living room floor for awhile just to stare up at the ceiling the way he used to do in his boredom as a kid. He thinks that it might make him feel more grounded in the place. And it does, in a way, though he finds it exceedingly strange that it doesn't feel chilly down here. It feels warm, and for half a second, he almost thinks it feels like there is more than just his own body in the room. Like if he looked up at the sofa, he might find somebody smiling down at him, amused.

He doesn't realize this in a startling way, not unsettling. Which is what makes it strange. He decidedly doesn't shift his eyes over to look, certain that if he did and saw nothing, saw nobody, that he would feel sad. Lonely, in a way he doesn't want to think about.

So he gets up again, and he keeps wandering around. He finds that the cute little window seat keeps pulling him back. It's cosy there, in a way the rest of the apartment doesn't feel. Yet, he hopes. He likes to be able to see the sky, and the cars going past on the road. People waiting for the bus, and kids playing in the side street. He presses his forehead against the glass as he peers down, just because he can. He imagines his baba telling him to stop. Smiles a little, and reminds himself to call home the next day.

It's at that moment, when he is smiling for the first time since he walked in the door with the first armload of his things, that the lights flicker. He turns his head away from the street to look up at the fixture, lips still turned up, eyebrow raising. And then it stops, just like that. 

Joe isn't sure why his heartbeat has picked up, really. It seems par for the course in this place that there might be electrical issues. And while Booker’s voice in his head is already teasing him about managing to pick a place that is not only drafty, but also haunted, too, he doesn't feel scared in the stomach-dropping way of people who don’t believe in ghosts but are faced with things that they can’t explain away in the moment. He feels calm. Relaxed, just like he would be in the company of his friends.

But then he catches movement, just out of the very corner of his eye on the sofa, and he jumps, head jerking to stare. The feeling of comfort melts away.

There is nothing out of the ordinary there, of course. Joe is alone. It had been his eyes playing tricks on him, or a shadow cast by a car or something on the street outside. But, he thinks, if he feels like winding himself up, he could note that the pillows are disturbed, as though somebody had been sitting there, gotten comfortable, really settled in for awhile, and then gotten up. Left them in disarray.

Joe doesn’t feel like winding himself up, so he resolutely tells himself that he must not have been as neat and careful as he remembered when he put all of his comfy pillows and the throw blanket into place.

He stands up, suddenly restless. Carefully keeps his gaze away from the sofa, and walks over to his desk. His cellphone is sitting on it, and he’d set up his drawing essentials first thing, his case of pencils and his sketchbook.

He orders himself some takeout, shapes and ideas coming together in his mind, and then he sits down and starts drawing.

By the time the food arrives, scenes are already coming to life on the page of a dreamy, shadowy man wandering around Joe’s new apartment. Of him flickering in and out of existence on the living room floor, on the sofa, on the window seat, in front of the light switch. His concentration holds firmly, head full of thoughts about the technicalities of translating his vision onto the page, up until there is a knock on the door. So then he takes a break to shovel forkfuls of spicy noodles into his mouth, looking over his work so far, which turns into abruptly closing his sketchbook on the pages that will forever remain unfinished, after his mind conjures up the image of the shadow man leaning over the desk, over Joe’s shoulder, hand gently outstretched as though to touch the pages.

A shower would be good, he tells himself, as he throws the takeout container away. Will help him shake off whatever weird new-apartment nervousness that’s making him feel so strange. Then he can put on comfy clothes, and maybe even go to bed early, bask in the novelty of having a whole bedroom just for sleeping in. 

He stops to grab his small box of bathroom items on the way. It would make sense to get everything tucked away in its proper place, since he will have to hang the shower curtain, anyway.

So he lays out the bathmat, and set up his toothbrush holder. Put his soaps and other products in their places.

And then he opens the medicine cabinet above the sink, absently wondering if he should keep his cough medicine in there, or if he should put it in the kitchen cabinet with his medicinal tea.

The cabinet isn’t empty, is the thing.

The entire rest of the apartment had been barren, when he came to see it, and still when he had moved in. There’d been no trace of a previous tenant, not even a forgotten clothes hanger, or an expired can of food left behind under the sink in the kitchen.

This cabinet is the first sign that there had been someone in this space, before Joe. And it feels intrusive, this, because right in front of his face is a neat little store of prescription pill bottles with actual information on them.

Joe lets his little box of NyQuil tumble out of his hands into the sink, and he hesitantly picks up one of the bottles.

He doesn’t recognize the name of the medicine, which he finds both a relief and a frustration. There is a name on it, though.

_Nicolo._

He has half a thought about reaching out to his landlord to see if maybe this Nicolo might need this back, wherever he’s gone, because the bottle is still mostly full, all of them are, and he can see from the label that it’s a monthly fill. But then he looks at the year it was last picked up, and thinks to himself that five years is probably long enough that the guy probably has it sorted by now, if it’s a medication he needs, or needed. He checks the others, still not recognizing any of the medications, but finding that they all have similar dates.

With only a little bit of hesitation, he goes ahead and drops them into the waste bin.

“Sorry, Nicolo.”

The lights flicker again. Just a quick, erratic fizzle before they settle.

Joe freezes, terror washing over him. He takes a breath, thinks about repeating the name again, but then doesn’t. Doesn’t want to know if the lights would flicker again in response.

He thinks about the GhostBusters joke that Booker would make, and then forces himself to refocus on the contents of the cabinet. Doesn’t let his hands start shaking.

There’s a razor, and a couple of blade refills. It’s actually pretty nice. Probably expensive, the steel still smooth and shiny. Joe wonders if Nicolo was, or is, clean shaven. He tosses out the razor, because even if it’s nice, it would be strange of him to keep it. Replaces it with the one he brought, just a simple one from the grocery store that gets the job done. Not that he’s been using it much, lately. Been preferring to use his clippers, keeping his beard longish, but neat.

The last thing in the cabinet gives him pause, more so than the bottles. It’s a necklace, that much has been obvious since he opened the cabinet. But when he picks it up, he sees that it holds a simple cross.

It’s golden in color, though probably not real gold, Joe doesn’t think, even though he doesn’t know anything about precious metals. It’s certainly nice, though. Well kept.

He doesn’t throw it away. That would feel disrespectful, somehow. Again, his thought is to ask the landlord about Nicolo, but five years is a long time to keep track of a former tenant. Maybe he can use this as initiative to get to know some neighbours, he thinks. Find out if anyone is still in touch with Nicolo, maybe they might know if this necklace had been important.

So he carefully puts it back exactly where he had found it. He finishes putting the rest of his own things in their place, he takes a shower, and he sings cheesy pop music as loud as he likes.

When the lights flicker again, just as he starts getting really into the song, he doesn’t notice. His eyes are closed, because he’s busy shaking his ass while doing a terrible, terrible falsetto, shampoo bottle clutched in his hand like a microphone.

*

Nicky is smiling, leaning against the doorframe and listening, thinking that this new tenant is perfectly splendid. He's handsome, for one thing. Lovely eyes, and curls. Seems very joyful, even when he's alone.

He still makes a point to swipe the guy's towel off of the hook he’s left it on so that it falls to the floor, though. The way the guy freezes when he comes out and notices, the suspicious look on his face that he shakes off before he starts humming the GhostBusters theme tune, of all things, as he wraps it around his waist, makes Nicky crack up. Who says denial can't be a cute thing?

Even if he might like to try and befriend this guy, maybe, eventually, instead of scaring him off like the couple other tenants who’ve tried to move in over the past five years, there’s no reason he can’t have his fun first. After all, nobody's tried to _draw_ him before. And certainly, nobody has ever responded to one of his tricks by singing GhostBusters. _Ain't afraid of no ghosts_ , huh? Nicky intends to challenge him on that.

The young woman who moved in first after he died was on the phone, terrified, from the first little flicker of the lights Nicky had pulled off, and she stayed on it constantly with her mother and different friends until she moved out. That had been a little hurtful, because Nicky had thought at first that maybe she might like to make friends with him, eventually, too. 

There'd been a couple after that, and the woman had been pregnant, so Nicky had tried to keep his shenanigans tame. He focused on the guy, mostly, who managed to convince the woman that they needed somewhere homier for the baby, without ever letting on about the half-threatening, half-flirtatious messages Nicky had been leaving him in the fog on the mirror after his showers. It had been impressive, really. Nicky wasn't sure if he had been more scared of the ghostliness of it all, or of the way Nicky complimented his biceps.

The next guy actually called some amateur ghost hunters, and the only thing funnier than doing nothing at all while they were over with their cameras and their static boxes had been fully materializing the second the guy dejectedly closed the door after them, scaring him so badly that he screamed and ran after them out the door, never to return. Nicky had maybe gone a little too far by making the furniture hover when the people he sent to gather his things had come by, because there'd been a lot of screaming, and then Nicky was left alone for what he suspects has been far too long. 

Now, though, he has company again. This guy is already proving to be a lot more interesting than any of those before him had been. Didn't even freak out when he found Nicky's little game of illusions in the medicine cabinet, read his name on the pill bottles, so it also seems that nobody has told him about Nicky. Funny, how technically if you die in the ambulance, or at the hospital (he's still a little fuzzy on the details), there's no obligation to disclose anything.

It was a little disappointing, sure, that the guy didn't call the landlord and Nicky didn't get to watch his very expressive face contort in horror as he was told he was describing objects that are long gone, and that the landlord has gotten calls about three times in the past. But the respectful treatment of his necklace had been nice. Nicky misses that thing, sometimes. It had been a gift. 

And the drawings, honestly. Nicky's a little flattered. Even if the guy seemed to freak himself out so much that he abandoned them, the denial train still chugging forward with him as the conductor, it had been nice. Maybe if the guy sticks around long enough that he will be able to keep his sanity should Nicky materialize for him, he might be interested in drawing Nicky for real, someday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: nicky briefly describes his death. nothing too gory, he had a pre-existing condition

Nicky’s favorite way to mess with the man who he’s learned is called ‘Joe’ is by screwing up his coffee.

It’s too easy, with the way he can barely keep his sweet, dark eyes open before he’s had that first hit of caffein. All Nicky has to do is hit the off switch on the coffee machine once Joe has turned away after starting it, or dump way too much sugar in the mug when he isn’t looking. It makes him grumble and ruffle his curls and rub his eyes in utter confusion, because he’s too sleepy to tell if something weird is going on or if he’s messing things up himself because he’s still half asleep. Nicky takes pity on him quickly, always, because he’s cute. Always leaves the second attempt to be successful. And it’s fascinating, watching how Joe comes to life as he works his way through the mug, once it’s made correctly.

Days after Joe moves in, he goes out and then comes home with a whole bunch of new things to scatter around. A big, warm-colored rug for the living room. A charming wall clock for the kitchen. An odd little bookshelf. A spice rack. A round, antique looking mirror. A bunch of picture frames that he fills with pictures of him and a whole bunch of people who look a lot like him, everyone with big smiles. Some of him and a guy with very big muscles, some with several women, some of all of them together.

Nicky likes the candles he brings in the most. Perfect objects for haunting.

Joe has some romantic notions about drawing by candlelight and trying to capture the flickering of the light in charcoal, which sets the ideal mood. Nicky forms different spooky shapes out of the faint smoke and the wispy shadows. Spindly hands, and eyes, and looming figures.

At first he thinks that Joe isn’t noticing, too absorbed in his drawing. But then he sees how his lips are pressed together, and he’s barely containing the tremble in his capable hands as he continues sketching each new shape that appears before him, apparently still knee deep in denial.

Well. Nicky wants to scare him a little, not give him a nervous breakdown. So he switches it up, and the flickering shadows reform into the unmistakeable shape of a cock.

Joe snorts, and slams his sketchbook closed. He puts his head in his hands, mumbling about losing his mind, but he’s definitely smiling. He grabs his cellphone, then, getting up to turn on the lights and calling his friend Booker to come over and watch the game.

This is becoming a pattern. Nicky does something that freaks Joe out, and then Joe finds someone to invite over, and tries to be as subtle as he can in asking whether or not they find anything odd about the apartment.

Andy and Quynh don’t think so, even though Nicky pulled out all the stops for them, flickering lights and moving things to places they definitely weren’t left, changing the time on all the clocks to 3:33 and standing close enough that he knows they should have been able to feel him. Not even a shiver, from either of them, which only served to allow Joe to sink further into his denial. Not good.

Nile only came once. She felt Nicky immediately, and promptly left before even getting the chance to take her coat off, telling Joe that he’s welcome to her couch and to text her when he comes to his senses. Nicky liked her a lot, but moodily made all the lights in the hall go out at the suggestion that she would have Joe leave. That had really freaked the both of them out, to Nicky’s disappointment. Made him want to materialize then and there just to tell Joe he would miss him if he left.

Booker is much more amusing. He talks to Nicky constantly, offering him beer and asking him what he thinks of different football teams. He keeps referring to Nicky as “Casper,” which he isn’t as annoyed by as he probably should be. He _would_ like for Joe to think of him as friendly, after all.

Tonight, after Booker leaves, Joe seems to be in exceptionally good spirits. His team won the game, and as usual, Booker’s casual attitude about Nicky had put him well at ease.

Nicky watches him settle in the window seat with his sketchbook, beginning to sketch the dusky street below.

Nicky thinks about messing with him. Putting foggy handprints on the glass, maybe, or ruffling the pages of his sketchbook. He's been experimenting with making the walls groan as they shift in settle in a way that would probably do the trick extraordinarily well.

Joe just looks so _happy_ , is the thing. Excited about his drawing. He's exceptionally passionate about it, Nicky has noticed, whether he's on some questionable commission or something he actually wants to be doing, quick sketches or full pieces. He’s bobbing his head now like there’s upbeat music he’s thinking about, humming snatches of it every little while before pressing his lips together and furrowing his brow in his concentration, pencil flying over the page.

Cute, is what it is. And Nicky finds he doesn’t want to disturb him. Doesn't want to mess up the drawing.

So he just settles in, comfy on the sofa amongst Joe’s excessive collection of pillows. He closes his eyes, sighs, and basks in the gentle sounds of a scratching pencil and Joe’s humming. He knows that Joe can feel his presence, and he hopes it’s a contributing factor to the good mood.

*

“Whoever you are, I’m mad at you.”

Nicky looks up from where he’s busying himself flipping through an old sketchbook of Joe’s he’d found tucked away in the closet. He’s affronted. Surprised, too, because this is as far as Joe has gone to acknowledge Nicky’s presence so far. As far as anyone has gone, apart from those amateur ghost hunters, and Booker, however jokingly. And, sure, Nicky does nothing but make a nuisance of himself, but in a cute, charming, beloved household ghost sort of way. Right? What's there to be mad about? The coffee, maybe? But why bring that up now?

The silence stretches on for another few moments, and then the last thing Nicky ever expected to hear leaves Joe’s mouth, his voice sleep-soft and gravelly, as sweet as can be.

“All I want to do is touch myself like any self-respecting grown man is free to do in the privacy of his own home. But I can’t, because I feel like you’re watching me. So I am mad at you, tonight, you stupid ghost.”

Nicky blinks down at the sketch in his hands, studies of some woman with long black hair draped all over another woman with short brown hair. Andy and Quynh, he thinks. He blinks at the shadowy form of Joe, laying down in his bed. He blinks at the ceiling. Then he blinks some more, because _what the fuck?_

Joe is snoring not evening ten minutes later, and Nicky is still sitting there on the floor. He doesn't know if ghosts can enter a state of shock, but that's what this feels like.

*

The next morning, Joe walks into the kitchen and finds that the coffee maker has just finished brewing. He pokes at it, suspicious. When he finally deems it safe enough to drink, he finds, to his delight, that it’s perfectly splendid. Just the right temperature, and no obscene amount of sugar in it.

“Is this an offering to make me forgive you for last night?”

The ghost doesn’t respond, and Joe wonders absently if he’s losing his mind. If he is, and he hopes he isn’t, maybe insanity isn’t so bad. If it comes with coffee this good.

He walks slowly to the living room, thinking that he might like to drink his coffee while looking out the window. The pillows on the left end of the seat are rumpled, like somebody is sitting there.

Joe feels sure, in a way he doesn’t really understand, that the person is still sitting there, even if he can’t see them.

Slowly, deliberately, he walks over and sits on the other end of the window seat. He feels warm the same way he had that first night, when he was laying on the floor, and has felt periodically since. Like he isn’t alone.

That's probably not the strangest part of this morning, since he is sipping coffee that all evidence points to the ghost having made. So he looks out the window, and he sips his ghost coffee.

He is halfway through the mug when his eyes catch on the distinct reflection of a man in the glass. His heart starts beating fast, way too fast. But he stays perfectly still.

The man is serene, calm and perhaps a little bit sleepy. Messy brown hair, and immense bags under light eyes, the color washed out as it’s reflected. He has his knees pulled up to his chest, resting his chin on them. Joe can make out the mole on his chin, and the faint upturn to his very nice, very pink lips at something he’s seeing down on the street. Joe would already have asked permission to get his sketchbook, politely request the man not move, if this were a real person.

His gaze eventually returns to the street, too, once his pulse simmers back down. He sees what the man was probably smiling at, a little girl working on a huge chalk drawing of what appears to be a distressed chicken. He huffs a slight laugh into his mug, and sees the reflection’s smile grow larger at the sound.

He feels the reflection’s eyes on him long before he works up the courage to look back.

He thinks he probably should be screaming. But those pale eyes match exactly the calming presence that’s been following him around since he moved in, and Joe wouldn’t consider for a second that this man might be dangerous. He’s looking at Joe in a way that is utterly timid, offering a very hesitant smile.

Joe smiles back, just a little, and sips his coffee. He asks, using the same tone he would if he were commenting on the weather, “am I losing my mind, do you think?”

The reflection man smiles at him wider, and shakes his head. He shifts, one of his legs seeming to slip down onto the floor, and Joe watches the pillow behind where his back should be shift and compress.

Joe subconsciously mirrors him, and the reflection man keeps smiling, looking out the window again.

By the time Joe drains his mug, the reflection is gone. The calming presence is still there, though. The cushion still compressed.

So he sighs, and then stands to start his day, because what else can he do?

*

Their morning coffee dates become routine. Joe stumbles out into the kitchen, half-asleep, to find the pot already ready for him. He makes himself a mug, and then he walks over and settles on his end of the window seat. He’ll make a few comments, and reflection man smiles at him, and it’s lovely. Some of the loneliness that has a hold of Joe's heart these days is melting away.

Joe wants desperately to directly ask if the man is Nicolo. But he doesn’t, not yet. It might be selfish, but he doesn’t want to confirm that reflection man is the same “very sweet boy” who he learned from his neighbour, Ms. Baudelaire, had died in this apartment five years ago.

He already knows, is the thing. Because of course Ms. Baudelaire had a story about how she thought Nicolo- _Nicky_ , she called him -Nicky’s mole was a smudge of chocolate, and had offered him her handkerchief to wipe it away.

That had been a week after the coffee dates started, a week after he first saw Nicky’s face. Had inadvertently confirmed for Joe that he really wasn’t losing his mind.

He’s pretty sure he isn’t, anyway.

And then one morning he walks into the living room to find that he can _see_ the man making the reflection, solid and real, casting a shadow across the floor, and his mug slips out of his hand.

The way it drops isn’t satisfying at all, because it lands on the rug he’d picked up from a charity shop just a few weeks earlier. It doesn’t shatter. Only makes a dull _thud_ as the liquid surges out and then begins to slowly spread, soaking into the patterned material.

The man sitting on the window seat stares at him, and then he does something that makes Joe wish he had another mug to drop.

He opens his mouth, and he says, cheerful and _heavily_ accented, “good morning, Joe.”

Joe stares back, and for reasons he can’t fathom, replies, “you- Italian?”

Nicky grins at him, wide and amused.

“And here I thought that the part about being dead would be more interesting. You like your men Italian?”

Joe blinks at him, abruptly remembering the cock in the candle smoke, reaching his limit for processing information somewhere halfway through the second sentence.

Nicky is wearing Joe’s socks on his impossible ghost feet. Joe knows that they’re his, because there are flecks of green acrylic paint across the tops that won’t come out in the wash.

He murmurs, eyes still caught on the socks, “I have not had my coffee yet, so- yes, I am choosing to find the accent more interesting right now.”

Nicky’s smile doesn’t drop, but Joe watches the amusement seep out of his very, very blue eyes. Much brighter in color than had come through in reflection.

“Right. Why don’t you sit down?”

Nicky starts to stand, and Joe hates himself for the way he instinctively flinches back. Because’s Nicky’s smile does drop, then, though he tries to force it back onto his ghost face immediately, slowly raising his hands and halting his movement.

Joe blinks at him, before sinking down onto the edge of the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not scared of you, I just- this is a lot.”

Silence, for a moment.

“You can be scared of me. That’s okay. I won’t be offended.”

Joe can tell that Nicky hasn’t moved, by where his voice is projecting from. He peers up slowly, and sees that he hasn’t lowered his hands, either. His corporeal ghost hands, that Joe can still _see._

“I would be a little offended on your behalf. You’ve been making me coffee for weeks. I probably owe you at least moderate tolerance.”

Nicky’s smile tugs back up, eyes a little bit sparkly with amusement, again, and Joe allows the feeling of comfort to wrap him back up.

“Hm. Well, I also made you spill the coffee all over your new carpet, so how about I clean it up, you get yourself another cup, and then we can have this conversation again. Or I can pop out, if you’d prefer. Or go back to just being the reflection. That was pretty cool, right?”

Joe takes a breath, wondering if it’s normal for ghosts to be fishing for compliments on their ghostly antics. He nods.

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll get another cup, and you, just. You stay here. Stay visible, please.”

Nicky nods at him, and his Joe can feel the weight of his eyes on his back the entire time he’s making himself a new mug of coffee.

When he turns back with it, the mug is sitting on the coffee table. The coffee on the floor just- isn’t there anymore. No stain, no dampness. Joe hadn’t heard any sounds like Nicky finding anything to clean it up with. More ghost antics, he wonders?

Nicky is seated in the window seat once more, but he’s turned towards the living room. Joe sits back down on the sofa, and sips his coffee, openly staring Nicky down.

Nicky holds his eyes, and slowly, with a solemn expression, slides into the _draw-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls_ pose.

Joe snorts.

“Okay, Italy. Keep it in your pants,” he says.

Nicky smiles.

“I feel like we’re still too focused on the Italian part. I’m a complex person, Joe. I have depth.”

Joe doesn’t take the obvious bait, doesn’t latch onto the fact that Nicky debatably is not a person, anymore.

He takes a breath.

“How do you know my name?”

Nicky’s eyebrow twitches.

“How do you know mine?”

Joe sips his coffee.

“The pill bottles in the bathroom. And I chat with Ms. Baudelaire, on the elevator. She misses you.”

Nicky glances down at his hands, hiding a flash of something in his eyes from Joe.

“I know yours because your friends have said it. How is Ms. Baudelaire?”

“She’s doing very well. She just adopted a new cat. His name is Mittens. And my full name is Yusuf Al-Kaysani, since I know yours.”

Nicky tilts his head, considering.

“Yusuf. Gotcha.”

The following silence is not uncomfortable, per se. But Joe doesn’t know how to break it.

Nicky does it for him.

“Don’t you have more questions? You seem very collected, for somebody who has literally just seen a ghost.”

Joe sets his mug down on the coffee table.

“Do you want me to start with the ones about how you died and how this whole ghost thing works, or about what it is you’re hoping to get out of haunting me?”

Nicky rubs his jaw thoughtfully, and Joe watches him stifle a yawn.

 _Cute_ , he thinks. Then he shoves that thought deep down. Wonders if Nicky sleeps, and if so, where.

“Let’s start with my death. It was boring. I had a heart condition- genetic, that I had been managing successfully my whole life. Had a snazzy emergency bracelet for it, like old people who live alone have. But something must have changed that I didn’t catch and my doctors didn’t find, and I had a seizure one day. I came to long enough to press the button on the bracelet before another one started, and the ambulance came. Not as fast as if I had been living with somebody who could have called as soon as I went down, so. I think my heart stopped more than once, so I’m not sure where me as a ghost- spawned? Would that be the term? Anyway, eventually I woke up, and I was here, like this.”

Joe doesn’t know how he looks so nonchalant.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He wants to touch Nicky, somehow, give him a hug. Tactile, Joe. Nicky shrugs, eyes falling down to the floor.

Joe stands up, crosses the room, and sits down in his usual place on the other side of the window seat. Nicky looks surprised, but quickly smoothes it over.

“Don’t be. If I wasn’t dead I wouldn’t get to ogle you in your little towels after you shower, would I?”

Joe takes the deflection, because he doesn’t think he would be eager to linger on his own death either, if he were a ghost.

“What about all the things you can do? You move my stuff around all the time, don’t you? Use the coffee machine? Make the lights flicker? Have invisibility powers?”

Nicky giggles a little, and Joe melts.

“Invisibility powers- I like that. I don’t really have answers for you, though. I entertain myself by doing poltergeist type things- I just sort of will things to happen, and they do, sometimes? I haven’t hit a lot of walls so far, aside from the fact that I can’t actually walk through them. And the lights flickering, you’ll find the answer by looking at the light switch, because I’m actually standing in front of it, pushing it up and down like any other person.”

Joe raises his eyebrows, surprised.

“You’re telling me all I have to do to get some privacy around here is make sure you’re on the other side of a door before I lock it?”

Nicky immediately goes flirty and coy, and Joe remembers that night the other week, already anticipating the embarrassment.

“Well, yes, but you don’t have to lock me out first if you want to touch yourself, Yusuf." Nicky practically purrs out his name, and Joe regrets telling it to him, hopes Nicky can't tell he's blushing. "I’m perfectly consenting.”

Joe buries his face in his hands again. He doesn’t bother to lift his head before grumbling,

“And haunting me? Where are you going with that?”

Nicky is quiet, then, and Joe has to look up to catch the thoughtful, vacant expression on his face.

“I don’t know.”

Joe stares. All of Nicky’s playfulness is gone, now, and he doesn’t like it. Reaches his hand out to nudge his knee, gently, before he fully processes that he’s touching a ghost.

Nicky feels as warm and real as anyone else. If he’s surprised at the contact, he doesn’t show it. Only softens, expression going relaxed as he sighs, theatrically, and throws his ghost legs over Joe’s lap. He bats his ghost eyelashes, and Joe thinks his brain is going to short-circuit very soon.

Nicky says, “I really don’t know. I’m a ghost, so haunting is what I should do, isn’t it?”

Joe looks at him, at the earnest expression on his face. There are a lot of things he could say, a lot of things he wants to. But he barely knows Nicky. Who is he to philosophize with him over the meaning of it all?

He says, hoping that they'll come back to the topic at a later time, when his brain feels less like mush, “maybe. It’s up to you, I suppose.”

Nicky smiles at him.

“Up to me, huh? Well, I’m comfy right now. So I guess you either keep being my pillow, here, or I go full Exorcist and destroy your apartment.”

Joe grumbles. But he’s comfy, too, so he leans back against the window and allows his hand to rest on Nicky’s ghost shin. It's all too easy to pretend he's a living person, warm and solid under Joe's touch.

And he discovers that Nicky can indeed sleep, because he’s out like a light before Joe is halfway through his coffee. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: brief alcohol/intoxication mention, nicky has a ghost episode that shares some resemblance to a panic attack
> 
> hey so remember when i said this wasn’t going to be sad? i lied here’s some light angst and hurt/comfort for flavour

Sometimes Joe thinks he’s adjusting reasonably well to the presence of a ghost in his apartment.

It helps, now, that whenever Nicky does something ghostly to scare him- like mess with the lights, or make things float, or make dicks appear in the steam on the bathroom mirror or in the smoke of his candles -that he shows himself after. He remains visible so that Joe can watch him giggle at his own antics, and bizarrely, he can field Nicky's requests for feedback on how to improve. Which is how Joe ends up renting more horror movies in the span of a few weeks than he has previously in his whole life, because he suspects Nicky’s inspiration material is seriously out of date. Half the time, his endeavours consist of hiding somewhere and shouting ‘BOO!’ When Joe walks in the room. Which worked very well only, perhaps, the first ten times.

(Nicky gets too scared to watch when Joe puts on The Conjuring. He hides under the blanket and then buries his face in Joe’s shoulder, politely requests to be told when the demon is exorcised. Joe finds it so funny that he can’t stop laughing, and Nicky starts hitting him with a cushion and insisting that he’s still a big bad scary ghost, and then Joe reminds him that he’s caught Nicky more than once jumping at his own shadow after becoming visible, and they laugh and argue so much for so long that they forget about the movie entirely.)

Other times, he’s sure that he’s lost his mind. That, or he's well on the way there.

The specific cause for the latter suspicion is a toss up between the surreal dichotomy between Nicky’s cheesy ghost tricks that are stolen straight out of different horror flicks, his charming silliness and refreshing sense of humour, as opposed to the inherent tragic ache in the knowledge that he _died_ in this apartment, and has shown no further interest in discussing the fact, or how he feels about it.

And, the other thing, the one that trips him up more than anything else, is Nicky’s obvious and insistent _crush_ on Joe (fixation? joking flirtation? Outlet for whatever pent up horniness he’s been harbouring for the past five years?)

It’s cute, sure. Flattering, certainly. Nicky is a charming, funny presence, and he’s incredibly easy on the eyes. His penchant for wandering around wearing Joe’s clothes also contributes.

But there’s also the fact that Nicky is a _ghost_ , who doesn’t always exist in the same plane of reality as Joe. That Joe is the only person Nicky has the option of spending time with, apart from when Joe has people over. And he could be a hallucination, for all Joe knows. Nicky said he would be willing to manifest for Joe’s friends, to grant him proof of his sanity, but everyone’s somehow been too busy over the past weeks to take him up on a hangout. Leaving Joe alone to question his sanity, and his potential mutual feelings for the _very_ interested ghost that may or may not be real and haunting his apartment.

Joe, because he has no sense of self-preservation, or something, once invited Nicky into his bed to watch one of those horror movies on his laptop. Very casual, lots of space between them, on top of the blankets in the middle of the day. And maybe Nicky is part vampire, too, because he took the invite as open. That very night, Joe got out of the shower to find Nicky cuddled up in his blankets, happily snoring away, conked out on Joe’s pillow.

So Joe climbed into the other side of the bed, and he went to sleep too, because what else was he supposed to do? Offer to make up the sofa for the ghost who has lived in the apartment far, far longer than he himself has? 

Nicky sleeps a lot, for somebody who probably doesn’t even need to at all. Joe doesn't think he needs to, anyway. He has given Joe ample opportunity to get familiar with his snores. Just a faint whistling sound, and only when his head is turned a certain way (it’s so cute that Joe doesn’t know what to do with himself).

And it’s getting increasingly difficult not to snuggle up to him when he randomly appears in the middle of the night, when he’s _right there_ and _warm_ and _smells like apple pie for some reason_ and is _wearing Joe’s clothes_ , and laughs this adorable little snort laugh and snuggles further into the pillows when Joe threatens to call the GhostBusters on him for waking him up with all his wriggling to get comfy.

Anytime he thinks about it too hard, it all starts to feel impossible. Impossibly complicated.

But Nicky makes it so difficult _not_ to think about it.

The flirting is one thing, the steady stream of sexual innuendos and the way Nicky will take the flimsiest excuse to throw himself all over Joe, cuddling into him in the window seat or on the sofa or _in his bed_ , complimenting him left and right, randomly throwing out comments about being gay and consenting and willing and _eager._

But it’s also how he makes Joe coffee every morning just the way he likes it. That he knows how to suss out Joe’s moods, and to back off on the ghostly antics when he’s not up for them. How he’s a great listener when he’s not trying to be a smart ass about the haunting thing, and how he’s so supportive and impressed with Joe’s art that it makes Joe want to cry, sometimes.

How he flirts shamelessly and endlessly, but will never do anything unless it’s clear that Joe is okay with it.

How one day, when Joe misses the impromptu family celebration back home in Tunisia after his niece says her first words, and the phone call to him gets dropped in all the excitement, Nicky doesn’t make fun of him for getting sad and mopey and homesick. Just sits with him, and listens to him ramble about his nephews and niece and his sisters and his brother, how he’s so proud of them and he misses them _sososo_ much. Nicky makes him tea, and hugs him, and says he bets they’re proud of him and miss him too. That they’ll probably send him videos in the morning (they do, and he's confident that Nicky finds them just as cute as Joe does).

Some time later, after he wakes up for the third morning in a row and has to give himself a stern talking to in order to convince himself not to curl into Nicky’s side the way he really, really wants to, he doesn’t even think before accepting Booker’s invitation to get drinks at the local bar to celebrate the end of the big case that’s been keeping him in the office at all hours. Nicky sends him off smiling and excited, because Joe is going to convince Booker to come over so that he can finally meet Nicky. Maybe start calling him by his name, instead of referring to him vaguely as Casper.

That was the plan, anyway. But then Booker makes it clear that he means to _drink,_ which means he drinks _too much_ , and instead of returning home to his comfy bed (and his comfy ghost), after hours and hours of drinking and dancing and yelling at the game, throwing peanuts, and narrowly avoiding a bar brawl, Joe helps Booker stumble home instead. And, when that doesn’t work, he calls them a cab.

He forces Booker to drink some water, and crashes on his uncomfortable and overly expensive sofa, wishing half-heartedly that the one in his apartment was still here.

The next morning, of course, their hangovers are wicked. So they sleep in, and they make bitter coffee and greasy food, and they realize that neither of them knows how the game ended. Even though Joe has the worst headache of his life, he doesn’t have the heart to say no when Booker asks him to stay and watch the recording on the DVR.

But then Booker passes out again before it’s even over, the asshole, and he was supposed to be Joe’s ride home. It’s dark and cold and wet out and Joe feels disgusting, like stale couch and food and alcohol and sweat, and then he has to walk almost an hour to get back to his place because he'd already used all his splurge money for the week at the bar and on the cab.

Ms. Baudelaire sniffs at him on the elevator ride up. It's deadly silent for the first couple floors, Joe hanging his head in shame. And then she tells him mildly that she thought he had more productive hobbies, which is the fucking icing on the cake.

Joe was _so fucking close_ to getting invited in to meet Mittens. Damn Nicky for giving her a golden standard for young adult male neighbours. Joe's going to have to bring her a casserole, or something, to make up for lost progress in his quest to befriend her. Well, he'll have to learn how to make a casserole, and then he'll have to bring it to her. Maybe Nicky can help.

Which, speaking of, he really should be more concerned with how strange it is that Nicky doesn’t greet him when he finally makes it inside. How there’s no noise from the television, or the radio, and how there are no tricks waiting for him. No coffee, either.

He almost, almost manages to convince himself that Nicky isn't real, again. Nothing but a hallucination, just a strange projection from a lonely heart.

But then, just as he’s about to climb into the shower, has just unbuttoned his pants, eager to shove them in the laundry bin, the lights start flickering.

Joe takes a deep breath.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he can see the light switch being jiggled up and down.

Nicky pops into his visible form with an audible little _gasp_ as Joe’s hand shoots out, fingers closing around his wrist with the practised ease of somebody who’s had to learn how to anticipate the entrances of an invisible roommate.

They stare at each other.

Joe has no reason to be mad, really. This is normal, by their standards. But he feels gross, and tired, and he isn’t in the mood.

“See,” Nicky murmurs, an imitation of his usual playful tone, paired with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’m starting to understand why magicians don’t give away their secrets.”

Joe releases his wrist, doing his best stern face when Nicky keeps his fingers poised by the switch, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Joe’s frustration must read in his expression, because uncharacteristically, Nicky retreats. He crosses his arms over his chest, defiant, and Joe doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he looks almost upset, mouth turned down at the corner, eyes agitated. Entirely unlike himself.

Joe’s too tired, right now, too disgusted with the lingering grime from the bar and from Booker’s sofa, annoyed that he’s messed things up with his favorite neighbour, too weighed down by sheer exhaustion to deal with him right this minute.

“And I thought we had discussed that bathroom time is private time.” He doesn’t quite manage to keep his tone neutral, but he hopes that Nicky doesn’t take it personally, that hopefully he can tell Joe just needs a few minutes. “Are you really going to make me start locking the door, Nicky?”

Nicky just _looks_ at him for a second, and the regret is already welling in Joe’s chest because now he looks downright hurt, which must mean something is actually fucking wrong, and of course that comes before Joe’s bad mood.

Nicky doesn’t know how to ask for attention like a normal person, he already knows. But Joe has _never_ seen that expression on his face before, and he should have noticed that the lack of greeting when he came home was strange enough to warrant concern.

“Nicky,” he says, already softening, but those blue eyes turn down towards the floor and he just- fucking ghosts out on him, just melts out of existence before Joe can ask him what’s wrong.

He can tell from the feel of the room that Nicky isn’t in it, anymore.

And so Joe sighs. He doesn’t bother to lock the door, and he takes his shower, taking his time to scrub every inch of his body and giving his hair some special attention before he gets out again, new goal of getting Nicky to talk to him, without his tricks or his jokes or his silly deflections, clear and centred in his mind.

There’s no cutesy message written in the steam of the mirror when he gets out, is the thing. Not even a drawing of a dick. His towel isn’t swiped off the hook, either. Not that he really expected any of those things, after what’s just happened. But he still sort of hoped.

And he keeps hoping. Because Nicky isn’t anywhere that Joe can see or hear him, not for the rest of the night. He doesn’t respond to Joe calling out for him, he doesn’t mess with the lights, or even the candles when Joe gets them out. He doesn’t show up in Joe’s bed that night.

So hoping is all he can do.

And for the first time, he’s not hoping that he’s sane. He’s not hoping that he’s _insane_ , either, that maybe he can get some help and all of this will go away. Instead, all he’s hoping is that Nicky is okay, and that he’ll come back soon.

He doesn’t sleep well that night, despite the pill he takes for the headache. So he walks into the kitchen too early the next morning.

The coffee is already on, same as always. So Joe takes a breath, and he makes himself a mug.

And then he turns around and walks into the living room, and there’s Nicky, curled up in the window seat, looking exhausted.

Once he’s sat on the other end, Joe takes the step that Nicky usually does, reaching out and gently pulling his socked feet into his own lap. He lets the silence sit for a minute, after it becomes clear that Nicky has no intention of looking at him.

And then, finally.

Nicky asks, so very quietly, “how long were you gone?”

Joe blinks at him, and his brow furrows in confusion.

“How long was I gone? With Booker, you mean?”

Nicky goes quiet again, for long, arduous minutes, and Joe doesn’t know what he’s asking.

Finally, Nicky actually turns to look at him, and Joe realizes with an aching wash of despair that the look on Nicky’s face isn’t hurt. It wasn’t hurt last night, either, when Joe brushed him off.

It is, was, _fear._

Nicky huffs out a harsh breath, and then says in a rush, “you said you were going to watch the game, and then you were going to come back, so you should have been back before the sun was up. But then the sun was up, and you hadn’t been back. When you came back again, it was dark, but I didn't know how many times the sun had gone up and down and I don’t- I can’t tell time anymore. All the time this apartment was been empty in the years since, after- I never knew how much time was passing, or when it was a new week or month or year, or anything. I never know how much time is going by, you understand? You left, and you didn’t come back- how long were you gone?”

 _You left me_ , _and I don’t know how long you left me_ , is what Nicky isn't saying.

Joe thinks his heart might be breaking.

He reaches out and takes Nicky’s hand, then. But his ghost is stubbornly staring out the window.

“I didn’t leave you, Nicky. I wouldn’t do that.”

The corner of Nicky’s mouth tugs down, and he presses his hand against his face to hide it, eyes definitely shining with wetness. Joe gently rubs his ankle. He’s wearing the socks with the green flecks of paint again.

Joe continues.

“I was gone for one night. Booker got really drunk at the bar, and so I made sure he got home safe, and then I crashed on his couch. I would have told you, if you had a phone. I wasn’t even gone twenty-four hours.”

Nicky looks pained, now, throat bobbing. His hand swipes at the side of his face that’s turned away from Joe, and now Joe _knows_ that his heart is breaking.

Nicky murmurs, in a voice that’s terrible hollow and quiet, “it was only twenty-four hours?”

Joe can’t take the crestfallen expression on his face, so he leans forward and firmly wraps his arms around Nicky. The way he has to crouch over him is a little awkward, and his knee is uncomfortably squished against the window, but Nicky sinks into the embrace like- like he’s been entirely alone for five years. Like he’s touch-starved, which. Right.

“It was only twenty-four hours, habibi, I promise. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Nicky’s definitely sniffling into his shoulder, and Joe can’t do anything but stroke his hair, his shoulders, murmur comforting things and hope that he’s succeeding in shouldering some of this impossible pain for Nicky. Hugging him tighter as he trembles, wiping his tears. 

Joe manages to slip around him, after a few minutes, so that Nicky can lean back against his chest. Gets him to talk about some things, finally. Things that make both of them ache, but that Nicky needed to get off his chest. Things that make Joe hold him tighter, and reiterate that he's not going anywhere. 

That afternoon, Joe goes to the store and buys a big calendar to hang on the wall beside the snazzy clock.

Keeping track of the days becomes a part of Nicky’s routine. He ticks them off with little marks in red pen, one by one, after he starts the coffee pot for Joe each morning. 


	4. Chapter 4

Joe watches with a smile as Nicky taps away on Joe’s laptop, brows furrowed in concentration.

Paranormal Activity is playing on the television, though it’s going ignored by Nicky, too wrapped up in his writing. If Joe wasn’t so happy that he’s found something he likes to do, something that doesn’t involve doing a mediocre job of haunting Joe’s mediocre apartment, he would be more upset that Nicky isn’t taking the time to appreciate the ghostly tantrum-like fits from the entity haunting the house in the film.

(If Nicky did something like that, Joe might try out the movie trick of using salt to corner him in a room and force him to take a time out.)

It’s a blog, of sorts, Nicky’s new hobby. Something between creative writing and review work, or an amalgamation. Joe isn’t exactly sure, because he’s not allowed to read it, yet. Nicky said he needs more practise, first.

Doesn’t matter, really. Joe’s just glad he’s having fun.

It’s a good way for Nicky to socialize, too, since he’s joined up with a writing group. They have an email chain, apparently.

Joe wonders as he sneaks glances at him, pretending to be watching the television every time Nicky’s head whips to the side to level playful, accusatory stares at him, if Nicky wants to write about Joe as much as Joe wants to draw Nicky.

*

“Thanks, Dora.”

Joe winks at the little old lady behind the counter, smiling as he accepts the bag of takeout.

It’s heavier than usual, since Nicky requested an order of spicy rice, and a large order of the sweet cinnamon drink they make special. Joe is in the mood for tea, but he has every intention of stealing a few sips of Nicky’s drink before he gets back to the apartment.

Joe loves this place. Some of his sketches are hanging on the wall. Old ones, from the very first year he went freelance.

He asks about Dora’s kids, and she says they’re doing well.

She’s smiling at him, as brightly as usual.

But then she winks back at Joe, and instead of the usual sendoff, she says, “enjoy, sweetheart. I hope whoever has you so happy these days sticks around. You deserve it.”

And, well. Joe laughs, ears heating, glancing down at the floor before he stuffs an extra bill in the tip jar and takes his leave.

*

Nicky is busying himself by making curry when Joe strolls into the kitchen. He’s mulling over some big thoughts, Nicky can tell from his eyes alone.

Nicky could stare into those eyes all day. At their rich, lovely color, lively and expressive, warm as a summer day. Utterly transparent, in a way that makes Nicky’s chest ache sometimes, because all of Joe’s emotions are right there for whoever cares to look. Unconcealed, beautiful and overwhelming and a little bit tragic, sometimes. And, maybe it’s actually that Nicky is projecting. Or, maybe it’s just that sometimes he really _wants_ to be projecting, because Joe is not, should not be a sad thing, not like Nicky, he can’t be, not condemned. The thought that some of the deadness might be rubbing off makes Nicky feel desolate and desperate and less than human in a way that he wants to shove deep down forever, makes him want to go to sleep and stay in that state of relief and respite, instead. Makes him glad that Joe never shows any interest in returning Nicky's affections.

He has told Joe this. The part about wanting to stare all day, anyway. Only to be met with the same unmistakably pleased, and yet blustery brush off, so.

He busies himself in the kitchen, rather than dwelling on it. Too much time for dwelling already, in this odd, ghostly existence.

Joe is rumpled in the way that only results from eight hours bent over some piece or other, hands smudged with graphite and curls ruffled from all the worrying at it he does when he’s thinking. He’s two pots of coffee into the day, and likely won’t let up until late at night, when his twitching fingers and aching eyes will force him to give it a rest. Nicky isn’t sure if he’s eaten anything yet today, but it’s like him to forget.

“It’s not done yet,” he warns, “and no snacking before dinner, either. Or else I will- I’ll-“

Joe raises a teasing eyebrow, and Nicky panics.

“I will shatter all your mirrors. Shards everywhere. It’ll be hell.”

Joe leans against the counter and smiles at him, eyes sparkling.

“Vandalism, Nicky. That’s just ordinary, human vandalism.”

Nicky shrugs, pursing his lips against his smile.

He taps his stirring spoon gently against the pan before holding it out, offering it to Joe to try.

Joe, whose gorgeous eyes widen, long eyelashes fluttering as he reaches out to gently grasp Nicky’s hand instead of the spoon itself as he tastes, pink lips pursed way too pretty against the wood, shiny as he licks the curry off of them, grasping Nicky’s wrist a second too long.

Nicky wants to eat _him._

“Good?”

Joe nods at him, appreciatively eyeing the various pots and pans on the go.

“Very good. Ghost curry is my favorite.”

Nicky smiles, and turns back to the stove.

“I know it is. And I know that _you know_ it’s going to be another twenty minutes,” he glances anxiously at the timer to make sure that’s right, “so what do you need?”

Joe putters around a bit without saying anything else, so Nicky reduces the heat and puts the spoon down to give Joe his full attention. He’s expecting a request for a fresh set of eyes on Joe’s work, or maybe for Nicky to hold a certain pose that he can sketch out quickly because it looks more natural than working from his anatomy reference book.

Joe says, distractedly running his hand over his beard, “Booker is coming over tomorrow. He just texted.”

Nicky takes in the mild anxiety evident in his posture and in his eyes, and he understands.

“That’s great, Joe. You have nothing to worry about- I might _fantasize_ about licking Booker’s arms, but yours are the only ones I want wrapped around me.”

He reaches out and runs his fingertips over Joe’s arm for dramatic effect, warm and firm through his cotton long-sleeve, which makes Joe snort, so. All is well.

Nicky offers a reassuring squeeze for good measure, and Joe softens.

He still looks anxious, but less so. Catches Nicky’s hand in his, and squeezes back.

“Hm. We all want to lick Booker’s muscles, so I’ll let that go.”

Nicky grins at him, as brightly as he’s able, and turns back to the stove.

“That’s the spirit. We can share.”

Joe is chuckling, now, gently releasing Nicky’s hand so that he can get himself a glass and fill it with water.

“Yes, I’m sure Booker will love that. He won’t be freaked out at all.”

Nicky shrugs, throwing one last smile over his shoulder before Joe returns to his work.

He says, “not at all. And neither will you, because Booker is going to see me, and confirm that you’re not crazy. Seriously, Joe, you don’t have to worry.”

Joe halts in the doorway of the kitchen, looking over his shoulder with one of those transparent looks that Nicky is too much of a coward to look back at in order to see. Keeps his eyes on the curry, instead.

Joe opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, but then he just shakes his head. Walks back to his desk.

*

Booker not only can see Nicky, but takes the whole ghost thing in stride, to Joe’s relief. In fact, he seem more baffled by the way Nicky is excitedly clinging all over Joe, much more so than the whole Nicky being dead thing.

Nicky keeps getting up to show off for Booker by flickering in and out of existence, casting his reflection in the television before coming back to himself, grinning and giggling as Booker exclaims. And then he settles back down all snuggly close to Joe’s side, patting his chest and inquiring excitedly about Booker’s work, and football, and anything else Booker seems interested in talking about.

If he weren’t so preoccupied with how sweet it is, Joe would feel a lot guiltier for not managing to get other people over sooner for Nicky to talk to. Andy and Quynh will probably accuse him of being some kind of weird prank, sure. And Nile will probably need proof that Joe has brought in a priest like the ones in the horror movies to bless the place before she’ll come over again, even though Joe has no idea how to even find one of those, because, hello, he grew up Muslim, but.

If meeting new people makes Nicky this excited and bubbly, the trouble will be worth it. Joe might have to start selling tickets to his own little haunted house show just to get him more company.

Currently, though, Nicky’s fingers clutching the sleeve of his flannel shirt and the beaming looks he keeps sneaking Joe as if to say _can you believe any of this?!_ are making for a perfectly splendid distraction.

It also makes it hard to hide his pining face from Booker, his best friend, who knows exactly what the expression means on Joe’s face.

“You’re, ah- are you two a thing?”

Booker still looks vaguely unsettled, and he’s already nursing his second drink, tone uncertain like he’s not sure he should ask.

Nicky jumps in before Joe gets the chance, and suddenly all the vindicated joy of the evening flies out the window.

“Unfortunately, Joe is not interested. He’s just nice enough to let me pretend.”

He punctuates it with another gentle pat to Joe’s chest, nonchalant like he hasn’t just blindsided Joe, not pausing long enough to catch the way his mouth drops open in shock.

Nicky also doesn’t know how to read the knowing, apologetic look Booker shoots Joe before picking the football conversation back up with him.

To Joe, it feels like Booker can’t leave fast enough, after that. Not that the visit is cut short in the least. Booker stays later than usual, in fact, clearly getting along great with Nicky. Joe is pleased about it all, for more reasons than one. 

Everybody’s yawning by the time the taxi Booker’s called finally comes to collect him.

“It was great to meet you, Nicky,” Booker tells him, clasping his arm and winking. “You take good care of Joe.”

Nicky smiles so brightly that Joe feels singed.

“I will. Lovely to meet you, Booker, and goodnight. Please come again soon.”

Booker turns to Joe, then, and Nicky excuses himself to take their glasses to the sink to wash, giving them a moment.

They hug tightly, with pats on the back and hair ruffling, the way brothers do.

“You take care of him too, Joe. Clear up that misunderstanding.”

Joe laughs, pulling back.

“You’re giving me your blessing to pursue my ghost roommate?”

Booker smiles, beginning to step backwards as the headlights of the taxi flash through the window.

“I’m giving you my blessing to claim your happiness, my friend. He's been waiting long enough for you.”

The second the door closes after him, Joe spins on his heel and makes his way towards the kitchen.

And there’s Nicky. Humming to himself and smiling faintly, wearing Joe’s shirt, polishing off the glasses he’s hand washed before he places them neatly in the cupboard.

Joe leans agains the doorframe, smile growing wide and fond as he watches, heart hammering in his chest.

“So. Turns out you’re real, Italy. I’m not crazy.”

Nicky turns and looks at him, smile growing to match Joe’s.

“Or,” he posits, mischievous, “maybe you and Booker have _folie à deux_. Maybe you’re _both_ crazy.”

Joe advances slowly, prowling up to Nicky the way Nicky loves to prowl up to him.

To his delight, Nicky looks utterly like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, cheeks going faintly pink as Joe comes to stand toe to toe with him, looks him in the eye.

“Hm, I don’t think so.”

Nicky’s throat bobs when Joe tugs at the collar of his shirt, just a little.

“No?”

“No,” Joe murmurs, brushing a knuckle under Nicky’s chin. “Did you really think I wasn’t interested?”

Nicky stares at him, uncomprehending.

“I- well, yes. You never reciprocate.”

Joe sighs, boldly reaching for Nicky’s hand.

“I never did, because I didn’t know if you were just a figment of my imagination. Wishful thinking, or a dream come true.”

Nicky raises an eyebrow, gaze straying to the cracked vase on the kitchen table, a casualty from one of the many times Nicky randomly decided to jump out of a dark corner at Joe.

They chuckle, together, and Nicky squeezes his fingers back against Joe’s.

“I didn’t say you aren’t a nightmare, sometimes.”

Nicky shoves Joe’s shoulder, lightly, and just. Leaves his hand there.

“So, now that you know I’m real, that’s it? Just like that? No more hangups?”

 _Like the issue of me being a ghost stuck in time, eternal, trapped in this apartment,_ he doesn’t say.

Joe gently cups his cheek, and with a shuddering breath, Nicky sucks at his own lip, leaving it red and slick. Uncharacteristically shy, even as he searches Joe’s eyes with his own. He smells like the apple pie he’d baked special for Booker, earlier in the day.

And, Joe thinks, he’s beautiful.

“The hangups will still be there in the morning. We will figure them out together. But tonight, when you’re conked out in my bed, wearing my clothes, hogging my blankets, I would like to be able to touch you. That’s something we can figure out right now, isn’t it?”

Nicky inclines his head, letting their noses brush. His breath ghosts over Joe’s lips, and there’s not a hangup in the world that could have stopped him from leaning in, then.

They grow breathless quickly, too touch-drunk and hungry for each other to be chaste, Nicky’s greedy fingers winding into the back of Joe’s curls so that he can tilt his head the way he wants and make Joe grip his hips tightly with the toe curling sensation of their tongues meeting.

And then Nicky pulls back with a gasp that is too theatrical to have been from the way Joe’s hand is inching towards his ass.

He warns, low, almost growling, “Nicky, I _swear_ -”

But Nicky just moves his hands to cup Joe’s cheeks, earnest, and asks,

“Are you going to ask permission to touch my _boo-ty?_ ”

Joe groans, pressing his face into Nicky’s shoulder to hide his smile.

“Are you going to tell me that I’m _boo-tiful?_ ”

“Nicky,” he warns.

Nicky runs a thumb over his cheekbone, and whispers, “will you be my _boo?_ ”

Joe pulls back to show Nicky that he’s not impressed, but of course his expression comes out entirely besotted, instead.

He takes a breath, and replies, “only if you’ll be my _ghoul-friend._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folie à deux = madness shared by two 
> 
> one chapter left to go, folks. it's been a pleasure


	5. Chapter 5

Kisses in the kitchen turn into kisses in the hallway, and then kisses in the bedroom.

Joe still seems vaguely shocked by the confirmation that Nicky is real, for one thing. Keeps looking at him with wonder and unrestrained joy in a way that makes Nicky feel warm from head to toe.

So they kiss, and their hands wander a little (Nicky’s to Joe’s firm chest and stomach, Joe’s over Nicky’s broad shoulders).

They’re laying side by side in bed. Joe is flat on his back, staring up at Nicky with his sweet, warm, emotive eyes, all shiny and rapt, and Nicky is leaning up on his elbow, gazing down at him with equal affection. He’s stroking his hand lightly over Joe’s curls the way he’s wanted to do for _ages,_ and to his delight, the gentle repetition of the motion seems to make Joe sleepy. Though, he tries to hide it, playfully nuzzling his nose into Nicky’s wrist and pretending he’s going to bite when he gets too close to yawning.

(When Nicky offers to stop, Joe pouts and shakes his head _no)_.

“Can I tell you something, Nicky?”

Nicky leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth, just because he can. And then Joe turns his head so that it becomes a proper kiss, because _he_ can.

“You can tell me anything,” Nicky whispers, chest all squirmy and warm with affection.

Joe’s hand comes up and cups Nicky’s cheek, thumb stroking over his ear, and Nicky gets a little bit lost in the kisses, then. Doesn’t pull away until Joe starts smiling into it, and then he does too, and so he moves his target and starts kissing his way over to Joe’s ear, instead.

“Mm,” Joe murmurs, stroking a hand down Nicky’s side, “that’s nice.”

Nicky nips at his earlobe lightly, just once, before pulling back to admire the dreamy smile on Joe’s face, teeth pulling lightly at his lip. Admires how delicate his closed eyelids are, how the lamplight draws the shadows over his face long and pretty. Perfectly splendid.

Nicky knows he’s dead, but he swears his heart could stop again at a sight so beautiful.

“Sorry- I’ll behave. Talk to me.”

Joe smiles at him, eyes opening, hand sliding up to cup his neck.

“I was just thinking about a ghost trick that we haven’t tried yet.”

Nicky smiles down at him, curious.

“Oh?”

Joe’s fingers brush ticklishly down the sides of his neck. They skirt down his arms, next, playful.

Nicky’s throat bobs, legs shifting against the sheets as he clears it.

“Mhm,” Joe laughs low in his throat, eyes darkening, and whispers, “ghost sex.”

Nicky licks his lips.

“You would,” he whispers, cozying up closer to Joe’s side, “be interested in such a wicked and evil trick? Tonight?”

Joe skims a hand over his lower back, and Nicky shivers.

“We already live together, babe. Coffee dates every morning, the whole shebang. If I’m misunderstanding and you’d like to wait, of course I’m happy to do that. But,” Joe flicks his tongue over his lip, eyelashes fluttering as he glances down at Nicky’s lips and trails off.

Trails off, or is cut off, it’s unclear.

Because Nicky is kissing him, then.

It’s slick and hot and wonderful, and the way that Joe eagerly yields to him, seems to like when Nicky takes control, it’s all very enticing.

But Nicky doesn’t want to get into this without talking about the elephant in the room.

“Joe,” he murmurs, gasping when Joe moves his kisses to Nicky’s neck.

“Mm, do you want me to stop?”

Nicky shivers, presses himself closer so that Joe can feel how very much he doesn’t want him to stop.

“No. I want to hold you and kiss you forever. Ghost sex is definitely on the table. But I don’t want to ignore the obvious problem, here.”

Joe nips his lip, unbothered.

“Problem?”

Nicky exhales against his skin, not quite a laugh. Wonders if Joe is being dense on purpose.

“You know- me being a ghost? Stuck, here in this apartment. You’re going to get older, and eventually want a nicer place to live, right? You’ll want to be with somebody who can take you out, and meet your family? I don’t want to be the reason your life is lonely, Joe. As much as I want you, you deserve better than I can give you long term. Somebody who can grow old with you. And, I will be selfish- I’ll cherish you as long as you’ll have me, as long as you’re here with me. But I don’t want to let you offer me your heart when all I can do in the end is break it.”

Joe brushes his fingers against Nicky’s cheek, gentle. His eyes betray nothing but affection, and gentle admiration, which. Is lovely, of course.

Nicky is a little worried about the denial, is all.

Joe thumbs over Nicky’s lower lip, and says, “it’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but that’s not a problem we’re going to have. You don’t have to worry about me growing old or leaving you behind. And, my darling, you are not a reason that my life is lonely. I was worried that you were nothing more than my imagination running wild, but having you here, real and perfect- you bring me light and happiness that my heart has been missing for many, many years.”

Even as he flushes under the praise, Nicky blinks down at him, confused. Shivers even as he does, pleased with Joe’s teasing touches to his lower belly, just on the right side of ticklish.

“What do you mean? You’re _human_ \- alive. I’m not. The problem doesn’t just disappear if we ignore it until it _really_ becomes a problem, Joe.”

Nicky rubs their noses together, tender and gentle, and brushes his knuckles over Joe’s cheek. He expects him to get serious, now.

But then Joe grins at him, undisguised, for the very first time.

Nicky is so shocked he thinks he might be having another seizure, cold terror flushing through him along with the arousal.

Joe’s teeth lengthen and grow sharp at the edges, then, and his eyes are glowing a brilliant orange.

Before he looked like he wanted to eat Nicky in a very sexy way. Now he looks like he wants to _devour_ him, which. Also makes Nicky’s cock twitch, his arousal spiking back up hot and sudden.

Joe just _looks_ at him, with those glowing eyes, his thighs opening wider as he pulls Nicky down closer to him, begins mouthing at his neck in a way that makes Nicky shudder, grinding helplessly down and whimpering Joe’s name, squirming and needy.

Joe _growls_ softly, deep and animalistic from way deep-down in his chest, and he asks, “what made you think I was human?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all seemed real concerned about the ending being sad in the comments on the last chapter - as if I could ever write an unhappy ending, come on now 
> 
> (+1 of ghost nicky and cryptid joe being happy and in love coming soon to a theatre near u)

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @ dearpatroclus


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